Chapter 10 – “Tolerate It” - Taylor Swift #2
Fifteen minutes later, his hard footsteps pound down the hallway before he appears in the kitchen, opening my fridge and shuffling through its contents. Zach has on a pair of black joggers that hang low on his hips, revealing the cut V of his stomach that I love to run my tongue across.
I bite back a purr at the way his muscles flex as he reaches into my freezer and pulls out a box of taquitos. “Do you want any of these?” he asks, holding the box up.
“No.” I shake my head, settling beneath my throw blanket and grabbing my tea. “I have cramps, so I don’t have much of an appetite.”
He frowns, glancing at me cuddled up on the couch from the kitchen. “You should eat, baby. You’re gonna feel worse with an empty stomach.”
I shrug. “I’ll eat in a bit.”
“All right.” He sighs, and a bout of butterflies spring up in my stomach at the concern in his voice. I know it’s the bare fucking minimum, but when Zach shows any kind of care toward me, I can’t help but feel like a sad puppy, desperate for an ounce of his affection.
He finishes heating up his food before he sits down next to me on the couch, kicking his feet up on the ottoman that doubles as a coffee table.
The daylight is fading fast, darker than normal because of the dense fog.
I reach up beside me, flicking on a lamp to cast the room in a soft, golden glow before tucking my legs underneath me and turning to face Zach.
“So…I’ve been working on something for a while, and I haven’t been sure what I wanted to do with it when I finished, but I think I finally decided. I wanted to tell you about it and see what you think.”
Zach’s eyes go wide, and he chews his food slowly before setting his plate down on the ottoman. “What is it?”
“I wrote a book.”
His brows shoot up, and his mouth scrunches to the side, as if to hold back laughter, instantly sending a flood of nerves to my stomach and an embarrassed flush to my face. My cheeks grow hot as he huffs a laugh and asks, “A book? What kind of book?”
I clear my throat awkwardly, looking around the room—anywhere but at him.
“Well…you know I like romance and I like thrillers and…I like dark romance books that kind of mix the two together.” I’m rambling, trying to explain myself.
“I… I just had this idea of like…what if you took the villain—a killer—and what if they were actually just misunderstood the whole time? What if they also deserved a happy ending?”
I look at Zach again, and he raises an eyebrow, a smirk on his lips. “Are you serious? You wrote a romance book about a…serial killer?”
“Well…” I scratch my arm, restless with trepidation, suddenly anxious for his reaction.
“She’s more of a vigilante. She only targets men who’ve done terrible things.
And the detective assigned to her case starts to unravel the mystery and the motive.
He finds out all the horrible things these men have done, and then he starts to suspect her, the main character.
As he investigates, gets to know her, he realizes she’s not who he’s made her out to be. They fall in love.”
Zach’s jaw drops open as he stares at me in shock. “But…she killed people? Like actually murdered people, and you’re going to give her a happy ending? And what? Does she just keep killing people and the detective continues to cover it up?”
“Well…they kind of start killing people together, I guess? Kind of like a dark and twisted Bonnie and Clyde. They target the real villains of the world, and because he was a detective, he’s always able to keep them one step ahead of the law, and that’s what happily ever after looks like to them.”
Zach laughs roughly, dragging a hand down his face. “That is insane, Elena. Absolutely insane.”
“Oh,” is my only response.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean—” He shakes his head. “I knew you were into some morbid shit, but I had no idea it went that deep. I mean, you’re using a pen name, right? If you publish this? Do you plan on publishing this?”
“I do.” I nod, my breath hardly a whisper. “I planned on publishing, and I hadn’t thought much about the name I publish under.”
“You have to use a pen name, Elena. I mean…I appreciate what you’re doing here.
I think it’s cool, I do, but you’ve got to protect yourself.
” He leans forward, grabbing my hand. “How do you expect to keep a real job if that kind of book comes up every time someone searches you online? Do you really want your identity associated with that?”
That kind of book .
I rip my hand from his grasp. “I know there are benefits to using a pen name, but none of them have anything to do with my ability to maintain a real job.” I hold up my fingers to make air quotes.
“If I was ashamed of what I wrote, I wouldn’t have written it.
Of course I want to be associated with the art I created, Zach. ”
“You know what I mean, Elena. You can’t let a hobby determine the rest of your life. You need to have a backup plan because the odds of you making any money?—”
“First of all, I didn’t do this to make money. I did it because I love stories and I love to write. Secondly, what is wrong with wanting to earn money from my passion? Why is it assumed I wouldn’t?”
He tilts his head, giving me a deadpan expression. “C’mon, Elena. Do you know the percentage of authors who are able to make a full-time income from publishing their work? It’s like…minuscule.”
I roll my eyes, snorting. “Do you know what August said when I told him about this? When I explained my idea to him?” Zach’s jaw ticks as his nostrils flare.
“He told me he loved the way my brain works. He didn’t tell me I was insane and ask me what kind of mask I planned to hide behind when I shared my art with the rest of the world. ”
Zach swallows, and I watch my words land, knowing exactly what would hurt him most. “You told my brother before you told me?”
I nod.
“Has he read it?”
I nod again.
“How long has he known?”
“Since I decided I wanted to write a book at all.”
His gaze narrows. “And that was?”
“Eleventh grade.” Around four years ago. I’ve written multiple stories in that time frame, but never anything I felt was worth sharing with the world, not until this one popped into my brain a few months ago and flowed from my fingertips like water.
Real hurt flashes across Zach’s eyes, but he covers it quickly, dropping a bomb of his own. “My brother doesn’t mean half the shit he says to you, Elena. He’ll tell you whatever he thinks you want to hear because he wants to fuck you.”
Those words are like a sucker punch to my stomach, the force of it rising into my throat, exiting my mouth in a choked laugh. “That’s not?—”
“Please,” he scoffs. “August is in love with you.” He gives me an unconvincing smile. “And before you get too excited about that, just remember—the only reason my brother wants you so bad is because you’re in love with me. He’s always pining after what’s mine.”
“You speak of me like I’m a toy you don’t want to share.”
Zach only shrugs.
My jaw trembles, my eyes ache with tears, but I refuse to let them fall. “So, August is in love with me, and I’m in love with you.” My voice breaks. “Who’re you in love with, Zach?”
He has never said those words to me, not in the nearly ten years I’ve been chasing after him.
Sometimes, I think that’s exactly why I can’t let go, why he won’t say it.
He doesn’t want to give himself to me, not entirely, not the way I have to him.
It’s the piece of armor he keeps firmly over his heart, even when I’ve laid mine completely bare.
He loves me. He’s not in love with me.
“You know how I feel about you, Elena. Don’t weaponize that.”
I tilt my head, forcing innocence into my voice as I ask, “You mean the way you weaponize my dreams just because you’re insecure about not having any of your own?”
The words leave my mouth before I fully register them, and as I watch his face crumble, my hand falls over my mouth.
I didn’t mean to say that. I didn’t mean to call attention to the thing I know brings him the most hardship.
I didn’t intend to speak the truth we both know too well but never address.
“I’m sorry, I?—”
“You know what?” Zach pushes up from his knees, standing from the couch. “You’re probably right, and you don’t need me around to bring you down.”
I can’t muster a response, those tears I tried so hard to hide finally stream down my cheeks as he walks into my room and returns a moment later with his clothes, tossing on an old T-shirt.
That springs me into action. I jump up from the couch, a wave of nausea slamming into me.
I can’t tell if it’s from my cramping or from the sight of him leaving.
Zach is like a constant mirage I can’t quite grasp, and every time he walks out a door, I feel sick with fear it’s the last time I’ll ever watch it happen.
“Zach, wait. Please don’t. I?—”
He grips the door handle, turning to face me once more. “For what it’s worth, I was only looking out for you. I’m sorry I don’t have my shit together, and I wish you the best with publishing your book. I’m sure it’s great.”
My heart is in my throat, fear wrapping around it and pulling tight. I can’t breathe, can’t respond, can’t think as I watch him walk out of my house and slam the door behind him.
My heart sinks, and I fight the urge to fall to my knees right in the entryway.
The scene is so familiar, yet no less gutting as the slam of the door bounces off the walls of my chest cavity, fear grating against my ribs.
Every interaction with Zach Hayes feels a little like walking on eggshells—constantly on edge, afraid I’ll do or say the wrong thing and set him off.
When we fight, my instinct is to find anything I can use as armor, any weapon to protect myself, because I know nothing slices me quite so deep as his harsh words and disappointed sighs.
Sometimes, I’m so desperate to get the last word, the last hit, the last swing of my sword, that I go too far. Zach and I spar with each other, we trade blows to the soul, but he always comes out on top, like an unwritten deal between us.
He chooses me because nobody else ever would. He tolerates things another man would’ve walked away from long ago. In return, I always let him win. He’s always on top and in control. He always has the last word, and I’m always the one being reminded how lucky I am to have his attention.
So when I push a little too far, when I say something too real, something he can’t come back from, he walks away. Sometimes for hours, sometimes for weeks, months.
And it’s always my fault.
Rolling nausea presses against my abdomen, followed by a sharp, stabbing pain. My knees damn near buckle, and I turn, groaning as I waddle back to the couch and fall onto it. My breathing is labored and short, panting through my tears, heartache, and mother nature being a fucking bitch.
Without much thought, I grab my phone off the ottoman and dial the first number that comes to mind. I don’t ask for favors often, and I certainly don’t vent out my feelings or let others see me cry, but this instance calls for emergency help.
“Elena?” August’s soft, gruff voice filters through my phone a moment later.
“Hi.” I clear my throat, trying to rid the emotion from my voice. “Are you home?”
August has been living in San Diego for the last year, working as an apprentice for a tattoo artist and earning his two-year degree in Business Management.
I don’t see him nearly as often as I’d like, but he still comes home to stay with his parents in Pacific Shores most weekends.
He normally doesn’t make the drive until Friday, and today is Thursday, but I called on the off chance he might’ve driven up early.
“I’m still in San Diego. I’m heading home after work tomorrow,” he says. “Why? And why are you crying?”
I sigh, realizing he’s probably the only person on the planet who can tell when I’m upset, no matter how well I hide it. “I just…have bad cramps, and we don’t have any ibuprofen. I don’t feel up to driving to the pharmacy, so I was going to see if?—”
“I’ll be there in thirty.”
“No, it’s okay. You don’t need to drive all this?—”
“Elena,” August says sternly. “I will be there in thirty minutes. Do you need anything besides ibuprofen? Tea? Snacks? You want me to pick you up an animal-style grilled cheese?”
Fuck . That sounds good.
“Umm…”
He chuckles. “Okay, give me thirty-five minutes then. You put on Vanderpump Rules and get Rice Sock ready. I’ve got Oreos and sweet pickles here I’ll bring.
” My favorite snacks to eat when I’m writing.
He’s the only person who knows that about me.
“I’ll grab some burgers and some meds and be there soon, okay? ”
“But you have to work tomorrow,” I sniffle. My tears are free-falling again; it’s moments like this when I miss my best friend, and I hate how rarely I get to see him nowadays.
“I don’t work until ten. I’ll crash in Leo’s room tonight and drive back down early.”
“Thank you,” I breathe. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, Elena.” I can hear his smile before the line goes dead.